by Manju Kapur
‘Besides, we don’t want their memories to die.’
‘I’m sure you don’t.’
Astha left the house without a further word.
*
By the time school had finished and Astha reached Red Fort, the air was thick with banners. Some of the marchers were carrying posters with Aijaz’s photograph hugely blown up. Some were carrying banners with Leftist slogans. Black armbands were being passed around.
The rally set off. Down the road, shouting slogans, they marched, blocking traffic in a way that Astha found most satisfying. Cars were standing still, motorists were fuming, and people were getting late because of her. She shouted with the others:
Sampradayakta
Down Down
Down Down
Communalism
Will not succeed
Will not succeed
The Street Theatre Group
Martyrs All
Aijaz Akhtar Khan
Remembered Forever
Why did they have to die like this, thought Astha, trapped in a van, what were his last thoughts, he who had lived for others. How was there any fairness in the world when such a man could be murdered so brutally? Tears came to her eyes, but tears were not an adequate tribute to Aijaz, they were too ephemeral.
He had seen talent in her, what was it like to live with a man who saw you as having something to offer? If only there was some cause to which she could devote herself, maybe she would not feel so lost and dissatisfied, but what, and how? Knowing what to do was so difficult, and brooding over her life she continued to shout and raise her fist with the others. Down Red Fort Road, past the Asian Circus, past the Centre for Tibetan Refugees, past the Kashmiri outlet for woollen shawls, past the police chowki, past water sellers, lemonade sellers, past bhelpuri wallahs down Connaught Place and Janpath marched the procession. Compressed into half the road, cars were inching along, staring at them, curious, sympathetic, frustrated, annoyed.
They reached the boat club. Astha sank under one of the trees, extremely hot and tired. She had not realised her clothes were unsuitable for marching in the sun, she was wearing a thick black polo neck sweater, with Hemant’s vest on underneath. This meant that though damp and hot, she couldn’t possibly take it off and be exposed in her underwear.
The speakers on the stage were beginning to talk about state atrocities, an endless list. After that were impassioned recitals of Brecht’s poetry in Hindi. Fists were clenched, defiance was hurled towards parliament looming above the tree tops behind the boat club.
An hour later the procession set off towards the prime minister’s residence. Three roads away they met a police block. ‘No further‚’ said the policemen. ‘Question of security.’
They handed over their memorandum, and were forced to disperse.
*
As Astha was leaving, her principal stopped her. ‘Astha meet Reshana, she used to be a singer for The Street Theatre Group. She was especially close to Aijaz.’
Astha stared at the direct eyes, the face still with sorrow. Especially close – how close was that? What about his marriage – was she close before or after?
‘I am trying to meet all those who worked with him‚’ Reshana was saying through swollen lips. ‘We have to make sure his memory does not die, are you interested?’
‘There is nothing I wouldn’t do for him‚’ breathed Astha.
‘Good‚’ said Reshana. ‘I will inform you of our first meeting.’
As Reshana left, Astha turned to Mrs Dubey, ‘Who is she?’
‘Reshana Singh. She is a classical singer from an old and established family. She has many connections, it is good she is taking such an interest in this cause.’
‘Is Aijaz’s wife not here?’
‘Poor thing, I only saw her at the funeral. I don’t think she is able to cope with the shock of it all.’
‘I would have liked to meet her.’
‘When she recovers, we can arrange something.’
*
In the evening Hemant asked somewhat testily how it had gone. Astha was too full of the day to continue angry with him. If he was limited, that was his misfortune, she could be generous. Where should she begin, the crowd shouting slogans, the palpable determination to do something, singing We Shall Overcome, the sense of togetherness, her excitement at Reshana asking her to be part of the new society.
‘The traffic arrangements were terrible as usual‚’ said Hemant, not realising she had an answer. ‘I had a meeting with the distributor in Connaught Place, and getting there was totally impossible. Why do they allow rallies in the middle of the day, in central Delhi, I’ll never know. Arre, you want to protest, protest, who is stopping you? Let the ordinary tax-payer lead his life, that’s all I ask, but no.’
Astha’s generosity was not required, her sharing could keep. She could not enter into his frustrations, he could not share her enthusiasm.
For the rest of the evening, they talked of the children, Hemant’s concern about his mother’s arthritis, his father’s blood pressure, his forthcoming trip to South Korea, and maybe they could all go abroad next year for a holiday, and finally something that was beginning to bother him more and more, the increasing competition in colour TVs.
In Noida alone where Hemant had his factory, eight others had come up. He was making 1,500 black and white, and 1,200 colour TVs a month, but the market had become so cut-throat that he was forced to reduce his profit margin to maintain his position.
Never mind, Astha tried to console, dragging her mind to business concerns, now that the government has allowed religion on TV, there will be no end to the shows that will have the same kind of popularity as the Ramayana and the Mahabharat. There was a captive audience of millions, with a big enough market for all.
Hemant grunted. That very day he had heard that a rival factory was trying to instigate a strike amongst his workers. He had managed to bribe the men in question, but the general atmosphere of suspicion made it difficult to go on bribing. He would discuss the problem with his father in the morning.
V
A few days later at the meeting of the Sampradayakta Mukti Manch, a forum set up in memory of The Street Theatre Group, it was decided that painters should donate a painting for an exhibition devoted to worker unity and secularism. Astha was busy staring out of the dirty windows, where was his wife, was she still getting over her grief, how come she wasn’t there, would she never get to see her, when she heard Reshana address her.
‘Astha, what about you?’
Astha panicked. Why was Reshana asking, had Mrs Dubey made claims about her talent, but she was no good, she was a beginner, a drawer, a sketcher, nothing serious, her support was absolute, but she could do nothing on her own.
‘I’m not sure‚’ she managed.
Reshana smiled warmly, ‘Just try‚’ she suggested.
Astha felt the disapproval of the gathering at her delayed consent. There were too many people looking. She nodded, and sank back into her chair.
*
Her anxiety over her task was so great, she had to start immediately. After school the next day she sketched crowd scenes, patterning them on Rajasthani miniatures, trying to choose between a funeral and a procession. Finally she decided there would be more colour and interest in a procession.
She painted a broad road, on one side lines of figures, dots of black hair, holding banners, on the other side, rows of cars, scooters, taxis, cycles, and bordering this the white shops of Connaught Place, the trees in the central section, the massed pedestrians, the large blue sky.
She could think of nothing but her painting. When she was teaching, her mind was on her figures, the spaces, the colours of her canvas. At home, after lunch, she painted, and as a result there was no time to take the naps she had been used to. Her headaches became worse and often in the evening, after the children’s homework, she lay on the sofa, balm smothered, dopey with pain killers. When the pain was very bad she threw up. She tried to keep this
from her husband, to participate enthusiastically in his social life. But he did notice, and he did mind.
‘Why are you doing this to yourself?’ asked Hemant one evening, when it was obvious she was in pain, the smell of balm all pervading, eyes drooping, brow furrowed, face contorted. ‘You can’t paint and teach, every time I come home you are lying on the sofa. You are suffering, we are all suffering.’
Certainly suffering was involved, it was true. Astha remained silent, her shoulders hunched. Assent and helplessness.
‘Your body cannot stand the strain. Mummy said you are neglecting the children, you do not sleep in the afternoons, you are exhausted in the evenings, you are spreading mess in the house, everything smells of turpentine. And all for what? Some dead man.’ He never mentioned the nine others.
‘It’s not for some dead men,’ flashed Astha, ‘it’s for a cause. And I’m sorry your mother found it more convenient to complain to you instead of me.’
‘What is it to her? She has your interests at heart.’
‘I have a better idea of my interests.’
‘It seems not. You can’t do everything. Leave your job if you insist on painting. It never brought in enough money to justify your going out of the house.’
‘You were the one who thought I should work.’
‘But now you need not, dearest, I am making enough money.’
‘I want something of my own‚’ murmured Astha.’
‘What?’
‘My own money‚’ though she knew it was contrary to the spirit of good marriages for a wife to hang on to things and say they were her own.
‘You make me sound like a stingy husband, Az‚’ said Hemant in some hurt.
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant‚’ she said weakly.
‘Then? Quit for heaven’s sake.’
But she was not yet enough of a painter to risk giving up a job she had had for ten years. It represented security, not perhaps of money, but of her own life, of a place where she could be herself.
*
Reshana phoned frequently, inquiring about the progress of the painting, once dropping by, flattering Astha by her interest and her praise.
At this visit Astha asked, ‘Reshana, how come I never see nor hear anything of Aijaz’s wife? She must still be really devastated, poor thing‚’ she added in case her remark was construed as criticism.
Reshana made a face, ‘Just between you and me Astha, some people have a problem working with others. I do not wish to say more.’
‘Oh.’
*
Six months after the massacre, the exhibition was ready to be held.
‘Ten thousand rupees‚’ said Reshana.
‘Ten thousand!’
‘We need the money.’
‘But will people buy? I’m not known.’
‘It’s a large canvas. It is good. If you were known I would have priced it at fifty thousand.’
Ten thousand rupees – the outrage among spectators, each one saying, I wouldn’t take this canvas if you paid me ten thousand. She would be tested, tried and rejected. But the money was for the Manch, she couldn’t protest too much.
*
Reshana was right. The painting sold on the second day. The crowd was large, many people wanted to help the anti-communal cause, especially if they could get something in exchange.
‘I have told all my friends that my mother has sold a painting‚’ said Anuradha, looking important.
‘Only one, darling‚’ said Astha.
‘So what? They were very impressed. None of their mothers is painting.’
‘Well don’t say too much about it, it was not because of me. People bought it to help those harmed by state violence.’
Anuradha’s face darkened as she stared at her mother, and Astha knew she had ruined her satisfaction. She wanted to say yes, I have done it, I have sold my first painting, I have achieved something, let us celebrate, but the number of ‘I’s’ involved ensured that the words refused to leave her mind.
*
The Manch was anxious not to lose the impetus it had gained and efforts were made to chalk out a long-term plan of action. Unfortunately the Manch also had its fair share of members who could not agree, and valuable time was spent in arguing. Some talked excitedly of the international recognition their cause could get with a film that would document communal atrocities in the villages of North India. It could end with the murder of The Street Theatre Group so that the middle class could also relate to the theme.
Some wanted to start at a more grass roots level, doing the kinds of things Aijaz had done, street plays, slogans, posters, meetings, pamphlets, consciousness raising.
Some wanted to bring anti-communal activists and academics together to exploit the forum of the written word, maybe start a journal. Others thought this was too elitist, too far from the spirit of the theatre group.
Some wanted to concentrate on bringing out a collection of the writings of various members of the group, while objectors felt that since Aijaz was the main person who wrote, it would be like bringing out his writings, and such individualism was inimical to the spirit of the Manch.
Some felt that all their energies should go towards bringing the killers to book. Not a single arrest had been made so far, and this just mirrored the complicity of the police in communal riots and murders.
Most felt this would only end in frustration, and with the rampant corruption of the government they might as well bang their heads against a brick wall for the rest of their lives. The need of the hour was for positive action.
At last a sub-committee was formed. They would present a report, everybody would meet again.
*
Astha sat silently at the back, her head bent steadily on the moving hands of her watch, and as the hour advanced so did her alarm. It was getting late, the children were upstairs, their homework had to be attended to, Hemant would be coming home.
As she got up to go, Reshana, near the door, put up her fingers. ‘Five minutes‚’ she mouthed. Astha sank back in her seat. She felt the familiar pain marching across her temples to the tune of what were five minutes.
It took twenty-five. Astha was in agony. Reshana turned to her once in the middle, winked and smiled, enclosing her in a conspiratorial glance from which Astha was powerless to escape. She thought of the dinner, they could order some chicken from the neighbourhood restaurant. Rice, a salad, potatoes fried in cumin and coriander, it would only take a minute, there was the dal from the afternoon.
The meeting over, Astha made her way to Reshana. ‘I have to go‚’ she whispered, ‘it’s getting very late.’
‘Stay a moment, I want to introduce you to someone who really liked what you did.’
‘His wife?’
‘No. This man is a film maker.’
Pyjama-kurta, grey beard, grey hair, ‘I loved the emotion portrayed in your painting. I wish I could have afforded it, but Reshana here had priced it too high.’
‘Very funny, Arjun‚’ said Reshana distractedly, ‘If we start buying our own work we might as well kiss the Manch goodbye. And here, Astha, meet Kabir, he was a good friend of Aijaz’s, they used to perform together. He is on the sub-committee.’
Kabir blew smoke through his cigarette, and smiled at Astha, ‘Tell me about your other work.’
‘I have not exhibited anything else.’
‘You must do more.’
‘Thank you‚’ said Astha in some confusion. She could barely keep her voice from trembling.
Reshana looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘I have a headache‚’ said Astha, clenching her teeth, and carefully enunciating her words.
‘Oh you poor thing. Why didn’t you say? Come let me walk you to a scooter stand.’ On the road Reshana gave Astha a brief hug. ‘Take care.’
Astha replied, feeling foolish, ‘You too, see you, bye‚’ and turned to a scooter man who was cleaning his teeth with a neem twig.
‘How much
to Vasant Vihar?’
‘Thirty.’
‘Too much.’
‘That’s what it costs.’
‘I’ll pay by the metre.’
‘Metre not working.’ The scooter wallah spat on the road to emphasise his point.
‘Twenty-five‚’ argued Astha, ‘I pay twenty-five every time.’
‘Thirty. At this time I won’t get a fare back‚’ he added to make the defeat easier for her.
Astha sat inside. The scooter wallah, galvanised into action, threw away his neem twig, and jumped vigorously up and down on the pedal. It didn’t start. He flung open the seat, took out his tools along with a rag, fiddled with something underneath, carefully wiping his hands every five seconds.
‘I can take another auto‚’ Astha pleaded. She didn’t dare look at her watch.
The scooter wallah glared at her. ‘I’m fixing‚’ he stated. ‘Nothing wrong. Just fixing.’
Finally the vehicle coughed and shuddered. Astha’s head throbbed along with everything else.
At the next red light more stalling. With cars furiously honking behind it, the scooter was reluctantly pushed to the side of the road, and tinker, tinker, on and on before it sputtered into life, only to collapse on the bridge over the tracks of the rail museum. Astha could stand it no longer. She jumped out, opened her purse defiantly, and thrust fifteen rupees towards the man’s hand.
‘What’s this?’
‘Your fare. Or don’t you want it? This is the worst scooter I have seen in my life. You have made me late, very late.’
‘What can I do? The scooter is about to start. Just fixing.’
‘No. Here.’
‘Twenty.’
‘You make me late, and now you are arguing about the fare.’ Astha was almost beside herself.
The scooter wallah was not impressed. ‘I’m a poor man‚’ he insisted, scratching his balls. ‘What can I do? The fare is twenty till here.’
Astha lacked the courage to throw fifteen rupees at the poor man and walk away. She thrust another five towards him, and walked down the bridge towards the next stop light, where there was a cab stand. She was coated with dust. The sound of traffic roared in her ears, there would be the problem of dinner waiting for her and the children’s homework which would not have been touched.